


theologians

by Addison R (beyond_belief)



Category: The November Man (2014)
Genre: Flashbacks, M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5344331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Addison%20R
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First after, then before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	theologians

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



Lausanne is nice this time of year. It seems like one of those places that's nice year-round; David's never paid much attention to the beauty of a place before, only the operational properties. Situational awareness never truly called for noticing the way sunlight reflects off the calm, blue waters of a lake.

Devereaux's cafe isn't hard to find. It's a rambling stone building right by the water, with a small patio that's shaded by vines creeping across wooden lattice. When he steps inside, the air smells of coffee and spices - cinnamon, cloves maybe. There are cookies stacked beneath a glass dome on the countertop. 

David shrugs the strap of his bag from his shoulder and sets it gently on the floor, a gesture of peace. He raises his hands slightly. 

Behind the counter, Peter stills with an espresso cup in hand. He's wearing a loose white button-down, the collar open. His eyes travel from David's face to his hands, downward to his waistband, to the bag on the floor and back up. He says, "Hello, David."

"Hello, Peter."

Peter looks away from him and reaches for a saucer. He does something with the espresso machine that makes it hiss. "Coffee?"

"Please."

"Have a seat." He gestures toward the tables and chairs clustered throughout the small space. A few are occupied, most of the customers reading newspapers. One man is frowning at a laptop. As David takes up his bag and slides into one of the chairs, Peter pours a coffee from the shot glass into the cup and calls, "Henri, your espresso is ready!"

One of the elderly newspaper-readers shuffles up and takes the cup and saucer from Peter. " _Merci_ ," David hears him say.

Peter offers a smile in return. " _De rien_." 

David settles back in the chair. It's neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, a soft cushion on a worked iron frame. He watches Peter make several more espressos for various customers before relinquishing the counter to a middle-aged woman. He walks over bearing two cups on two saucers. "Two sugars, if I remember correctly," he says to David.

"Yes, thanks."

"What are you doing here?" Trust Peter to get straight to the point.

"I'm on leave," David says, taking a sip of his espresso, less bitter on his tongue than the words he'd just said. The coffee is perfect, actually. He does his best to not remember the last time Peter made him a perfect coffee. "I didn't ask for it, but as it turns out, doing the right thing isn't always doing the right thing. Or something along those lines."

Peter's leaning back in his chair, his gaze appraising. "On leave. Until they reactivate you."

David nods. "Yeah."

"So you decided to visit Switzerland."

"Seems nice this time of year."

Peter chuckles. "It is." He takes a sip from his own cup. 

"Do you have to make more lattes?"

"No one here drinks a latte," Peter replies, but he's smiling. Almost smiling. Close enough.

*

Peter's house is small and surrounded by trees, the brickwork covered in climbing ivy. He unlocks the door and gestures for David to precede him, then catches David's bag with nimble fingers and lifts it from his shoulder. "Surely you don't mind," he says, when David turns to give him a questioning look.

"Have at it."

"I know you wouldn't come all this way just to kill me, would you? Not after all that, right, Mason?" Peter asks, but it doesn't seem like a question he actually wants an answer to. He flips open the bag and rifles through it. "Ah, good boy."

David does his best to pretend those words don't have any effect on him anymore, despite the shiver that tries to shake his bones. He takes the bag back when it's offered. "Just clothes and my shaving kit, and a couple books."

Peter looks rather amused. "And just what does an agent on unwanted leave read?"

Trash that had been on offer in the airport. "Couple bio-terrorism thrillers."

"All wrong, isn't it?"

"Mostly, yeah," he laughs. God, he hasn't laughed around Peter in - years, for sure. He looks around the room they're standing in. Books line up on staggered shelves along one dark-paneled wall, a desk is pushed up against another, and there are various antiques and a few paintings displayed above a plush-looking sofa along the other. "Your house is nice, Peter." 

"I know it is."

There are no signs that anyone other than Peter lives here, so David asks, "Lucy?" with a raised brow.

"I offered to let her stay, after the whole ordeal. But her friends are all at the school in Geneva, so she chose to go back." Peter looks at him a long moment, his gaze appraising. "You remember friends, don't you, David?"

David remembers being recruited into the CIA right out of college. _Peter_ recruited him. Peter told him to set his political science degree aside with a soft laugh as he flipped through one of David's senior papers, the one about Cuba. "We'll be in Europe," he said. "What do you know about Berlin?"

Peter shepherded him through training. Peter's hands taught his hands how to hold a gun that wasn't just a hunting rifle. How to use a grenade, a rocket launcher. How to kill with a knife and how to kill with his bare hands. Hours spent on the mat in an empty gym, until David could pin him, elbow across Peter's throat as Peter chuckled, voice rough and pleased and praising.

David looks down at his hands now, hands that haven't touched Peter in years except to fight him. Intellectually, he understands, but the betrayal still stings. Sometimes it feels like a dream.

"You don't know what to do with yourself, do you," Peter says softly, a question that's not actually a question. He tosses David his bag. "Sit down on the sofa and read your book."

David does.

*

Dinner is something Peter reheated, leftovers from a meal made by a housekeeper Peter tells him comes a few times a week. "You still don't cook," David says, halfway between observation and mocking, as Peter slides a plate in front of him.

Peter doesn't even acknowledge this. "Eat your dinner and then we'll take a walk."

David eats what's on the plate, drinks the deep red wine that Peter pours for them. It's almost too rich on his tongue, the tannins making him pucker, and it heats his throat as he swallows. "Good?" Peter asks, tapping the base of the wineglass with his fork.

"Yes."

"There's more."

He feels warm and pleasant from the wine by the time they leave the house to walk. The leaves of the trees seem to shimmer in the fading sunlight. The sound of their rustling adds a soft background noise. "I think I could get used to seeing the nice things about a place, instead of always counting exits and crowds and the best angles," he says to Peter, as they walk and Peter's gaze travels slowly over him, heating him even more than the wine.

"You're always going to count exits and calculate angles, even if you don't go back," Peter says. After a moment, he asks, "How many ways in and out of my cafe?"

"Three; one in the front, one on the side toward the lake, and one out the back." He made a mental note without even realizing he was doing it. "And if someone wanted to shoot you at the counter, the first floor of the building across the street would give the best line of sight - through the left window."

"It's the only line of sight," Peter says. "That's why the espresso machine is where it is. Peace of mind is worth - well, more money than I'm sure you've got in your pocket."

David's got a couple hundred in Swiss francs and another couple hundred in Euros in his wallet. "I'm sure it is." He raises his arm to lift a low-hanging branch out of his way and lets the leaves trail between his fingers. "Did you ever even like me at all?"

"Mason," Peter says in a voice so softly chiding it makes David want to bare his throat right there in the street. It's an old, old feeling. One he thought he'd gotten past years ago. That doesn't make it any less.

"I'm sorry about Natalia." He watches a few loose leaves flutter to the pavement. 

"I would have held the funeral here. Her sister overruled me. So she's buried in Moscow, where Lucy might get to visit her once a year. If that." Peter squints up at the darkening sky. "She never wanted to be a mother, but she loved Lucy in her own way."

David's not sure what to say, so he says nothing. They walk another few blocks, until the sun has completely gone down, and the halogen lights that line the roads begin to glow. Peter says, "If you're planning to be in town a while, there are plenty of sights. Musée de l'Élysée, that's photography. The Olympic Museum. And the mountains are good hiking."

David mentioned enjoying photography over painting once, in Barcelona. He takes that to mean Peter won't mind if he stays.

*

The last thing he expects that night is Peter in the guest room doorway holding two glasses in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other, and saying, "So you learned to take orders."

David lets his hands still where he's about to undo the fly of his worn jeans, the belt hanging heavy where it's open. Peter raises a brow. "Don't stop on my account."

"So it's like that," David murmurs.

Peter sets the glasses on the nightstand and pours generously. "You didn't really come here to see Lausanne," he says in French, more to the whiskey than to David. Then he looks up, screwing the cap back onto the bottle and setting it down. "I'm not misreading this, am I?"

David pushes his jeans down slightly past his hips and rubs an open palm over his interested dick through his briefs. He sees corner of Peter's mouth quirk, then Peter takes a drink from his glass, turning it so that the rim scrapes over his lower lip. "D'you want yours?" he asks, glancing at the other poured drink.

"Sure. Thanks." He has to move close to take the glass, every cell in his body aware of Peter's _right there_ and aware that his jeans are about to be pulled down by the weight of the belt as the heavy buckle taps rhythmically against his thigh. He sees Peter's gaze flicker downwards again. Their fingers brush as Peter relinquishes the glass.

"Were you going to help, or am I doing this myself?" David asks before taking a swallow of the whiskey. It hardly burns; it's clearly expensive.

Peter tilts his head slightly. "I'm contemplating. Watching has a certain appeal, but so does that belt; it looks as though it could withstand you struggling."

The thought makes David's wrists itch. 

"Or I could tie you up and leave you here," Peter says. Thoughtfully, as though he's actually thinking of doing this. 

"What would you get out of that?"

Peter smiles. It's not a nice smile. The air in the room, cool due to the breeze fluttering through open windows, turns thick and hot in a second flat. David finishes his drink in another two mouthfuls and puts down the glass. "I'm getting on the bed," he says, making up his mind. "You do what you want."

The duvet cover is silky against his feet and hands. There are plenty of pillows to lean against, their covers soft against his back where his shirt is riding up. He doesn't bother fixing it. Instead he asks Peter, "What happened to Mira?"

Peter pours himself another. The bottle clinks against the wood of the nightstand as he sets it back down. "After she testified, the UN offered her a job working with refugees. She lives in London now. What happened to Sarah?"

David sits up to pull his shirt over his head. He's surprised Peter remembers Sarah's name. "I don't know." She survived the wound, that much he did know, but nothing after that. He slipped away while she'd been loaded onto the ambulance. 

It's not like she would have wanted to see him again. "Are you going to give me yet another lecture on getting involved?"

"Haven't you learned by now that I am the ultimate cautionary tale?" Peter returns his now-empty glass to the nightstand and begins to unbutton his shirt. He sits down on the bed, his gaze roaming over David's body. 

"Are you going to give orders now?" 

"I suppose we only ever did things my way before," Peter says, the words like an allowance, as he unbuckles his belt. 

"You don't say," David replies dryly, reaching to unbutton Peter's loose linen shirt from the bottom up, and Peter chuckles briefly, low and throaty.

"When was the last time you sucked cock?" he asks. His tone is conversational, like this is something he asks people all the time, and David feels his fingers still on the buttons for a second. 

He lifts his gaze to meet Peter's, says, "You know it's been a long time."

Peter makes a contemplative sound, warm in his throat. Then he moves, quick as a panther, pushing David against the pillows and straddling his thighs. "Slide down," he says, and David does, until his face is level with Peter's crotch. "Perfect."

David looks up at him and raises both eyebrows in question. "You couldn't even undress?"

Peter flashes a feral grin and slides his hand into David's hair. He braces the other on the wall above David's head. "Let's see what you remember."

*

There's a note on the nightstand when David wakes up in the morning. _Come to the cafe if you want breakfast, I'll teach you how to use the espresso machine._

*  
*

It's David's fourth winter in New England, but he still isn't entirely used to the freezing temperatures. "I'm from Alabama, it's not cold there," he grumbles to his roommate as he grabs his coat from the back of the couch.

Andre only laughs at him, rocking back in his desk chair. "Man, you're from so far south it might as well be _in_ the Gulf of Mexico, of course it doesn't get cold."

David flips him off and winds his scarf tighter around his neck, yanking it up nearly to his ears before he heads for the door. "Enjoy that math homework, man!" Andre calls after him. "Sorry you can't wear sandals!"

"Shut up, asshole," David yells in reply. Luckily, no one in the apartment building hallway even blinks.

Outside the library, a man he doesn't recognize stands ripping the cellophane off a pack of cigarettes, barely lit by the overheads lining the walkway. He pats his pockets as David approaches, then calls out. "Hey kid, you got a light?"

"No," David says shortly, and goes inside.

*

The man with the cigarettes is still there when David pushes open the door to leave, his head pounding from staring at problem sets for the last two hours. "David Mason," the man says, as David walks past.

He stops and shifts the backpack on his shoulder. "Yes? How do you know my name?"

"I know plenty about you," the man says, dropping the cigarette into the snow. "Peter Devereaux."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

A smile ghosts across Peter Devereaux's face. "Let me finish, kid. Peter Devereaux, Central Intelligence Agency, here to ask you: What are your plans after graduation?"

"CIA, sure, I really believe that," David drawls, rolling his eyes. He looks sideways at the guy. Suit without a tie, plus overcoat. Dress shoes just slightly too nice for the New England winter. Going grey at the temples. Handsome, in a rugged sort of way. Definitely not American, at least not to begin with. "Who put you up to this? Marco? Christina?" 

Peter Devereaux smiles for real at that, and produces no less than three forms of identification from various pockets. David look closely at each of them in turn. The military ID he can tell is legit. The Central Intelligence Agency ID stands up to all the forgery checks he knows how to look for without a marker or black light. A driver's license, from Maryland.

"Okay, fine," he says, handing back the cards. "My plans after graduation, huh? Right now, I have none."

Devereaux smiles, slightly more genuine this time. "How about I buy you a cup of coffee?"

David shifts the heavy backpack to the other shoulder. "Sure, why the fuck not? Lead on."

There's a Starbucks at the edge of campus, close to his apartment. It's populated mostly by English majors discussing Dante over lattes. Tonight it's not too crowded and David follows Devereaux to one of the high-top tables. "Regular or decaf?" Devereaux asks, leaving his scarf over the back of the chair.

"Regular, thanks."

Devereaux joins the line, and David tucks his backpack between his legs and the wall, watching Devereaux out of the corner of his eye. Military, maybe years ago. Maybe joining the American military is how he got his foot in the door, if he's telling David the truth. Or he is an American, who maybe grew up abroad. 

A cup is set in front of him along with a handful of sugar packets. "Wasn't sure," Devereaux says, sliding into the chair opposite.

"This is fine, thanks." He adds a couple packets and stirs slowly, looking Devereaux over. "So, the CIA goes out to recruit in person, huh?"

"For possible field agents, yes, on occasion."

"And you're looking at me. No offense, but why? I'm nobody. It's not like I was in the military."

Devereaux leans back slightly in the chair. "David Mason, son of retired Army Captain Michael Mason. Sniper champion of your hunting club every year of high school. Richfield West, by the way, a small school, no football team so you played summertime intramurals. Class salutatorian, thanks to that A- in World Literature your senior year."

"It's not nice to make high school kids read Joyce," David replies. 

"I don't disagree. Can you throw a knife?"

"Yes, my father taught me."

"He teach you a lot of things?"

"Right up until he died," David replies, crossing his arms over his chest and meeting Devereaux's gaze. "But you knew that already."

"Yes. How old were you again?"

David feels justified in glaring at him for a moment before answering, but Devereaux doesn't even blink. "Nine. It was a heart attack."

"He was young, for a heart attack," Devereaux says over the plastic lid of his coffee cup. 

David hasn't talked about his father with anyone in years. Sometimes he has a hard time picturing the man, even when he closes his eyes and concentrates. Often the best he can conjure up is the uniform, remembered through a child's eyes, and no face. "He sure wasn't old, but death doesn't care about a fucking number."

Devereaux nods. "That it doesn't."

"Look, Devereaux -"

"Peter, please."

"Whatever you're looking for, I'm sure it's not me. Peter. I have some hunting skills, but I didn't serve, and I can't believe the CIA would honestly look for someone studying political science and math."

"All the physical skills can be taught. You have the aptitude, that's all I ask. And what classes you take here matter little other than learning the ways of identifying a problem, breaking it down into solvable parts, and then moving forward in solving it. That's really what we do, at the Agency."

"Where would I go?"

"Wherever was asked of you. Right now, Europe is our most likely destination." Peter finishes his coffee. "The hardest question is this: Could you leave behind everything you have here and become someone else? Are you the sort of person who could do that? That's what paperwork and background checks can't tell me."

David thinks of his father's grave, of his mother who grew more and more distant over the years until they were just two people living in the same house and hardly speaking. He thinks of the high school friends whose names he can no longer remember, the string of girlfriends who almost all looked the same.

"I have a hotel room down the street if you'd like to discuss your future over something stronger than coffee," Devereaux suggests.

"Sure, why the hell not? I got all my homework done at the library," David says with a shrug. He picks at the loose corner of the cardboard cup holder.

"All?"

He stops worrying at the cup. "Well, most of it - how did you…"

Peter Devereaux only smiles and fixes his suit as he stands.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide, Sandrine!


End file.
